In My Blood
by The Incredible Nameless Wonder
Summary: The world is falling to ruin, and in the centre -slightly to the left- is Elanniea, a perfectionist Altmer not yet ready to die. She's surprised by the results when she abandons sense and follows Ralof into the Keep, and doesn't stop there. When she learns her blood is not nearly pure, she must confront her hypocrisy, and accept her flaws as well as those she cares for. {Ralof/OC}
1. Prologue: Brush Strokes

_**Prologue: Brush Strokes**_

The painting was of a mountainside, dusted with expertly drawn blades of grass and several patches of lavender. A stream rolled down the decline, clear and bluer than the sky outside the window.

A golden sun shone down on the flowers, rays spreading out to the dark wood frame. Who ever carved the magnificent border was learned in their craft. A pattern of vines, dotted here and there with roses spiraled from one edge to the other, meeting and departing as if they were dancing.

The wooden flowers seemed to bloom under the natural light that shone through the windows. Beside the beautiful work of art lay a cloth, which covered it a few moments ago, before delicate hands pulled it away. If it were to be hung on the tall, slightly curved walls of the manor, it would have been quite at home amongst the other cheerful and vibrant colors. It would have been even lovelier.

"I don't like it."

As if someone had dropped a pile of books in a silent room, the spell was broken. The beautiful painting lost its glow under the sun as thin fingers ran their nails down the dried paint. The carved roses now seemed to only wilt under the scrutinizing Altmer gaze.

She stood before the painting, arms crossed over her chest, her posture straight. Her mouth was set into an icy cold sneer, her acidic green eyes narrowed with displeasure. She seemed tense, as if looking at the artwork was causing her some sort of personal insult.

"Of course you don't, dearest." Came a voice from slightly behind her. The Altmer woman turned on her heel to face her husband, a look of tired disappointment in his equally green and equally slanted eyes.

The lady set her mouth into a firm line, moving towards him with long, graceful strides. When she stood beside him, she looked back at the painting, instinctively reaching for the High Elf man's arm.

"The brush strokes are an abomination." She told him curtly and he nodded. "You could see them from a mile away." She was rewarded with yet another non-verbal agreement.

"You're quite right, my love." He finally said. "Quite right." He moved closer towards the canvas, placing his hands on the frame.

"It isn't worth hanging by my other pieces. I would be a laughingstock if anyone else knew I displayed that human trash in my home." Again, there came a nod.

"I should not have asked about it at the market." The male replied, running his hands over the smooth surface. He had not intended to give his wife a reason to be shamed, but now that she had pointed it out, it became obvious how amateur the painting was.

"Get rid of it." She hissed, turning away, walking towards the doors. "I am to be two hundred years, my love, I believe I deserve better." Placated by another nod, the Mer swept out of the room, closely followed by her husband.

After a moment, a creaking noise came from the cupboard at the far end of the room. Not a few seconds later, and equally golden and green-eyes face much smaller than the previous two peeked out from behind two intricately-carved wooden doors. She looked to the hall where her parents had left before stepping out of the cabinet and shutting it behind her.

She approached the painting, lifting a hand to touch the paint in a much gentler way than her mother had. She could see every flaw, every imperfection, just as she had been taught to. She let a finger rest on a bushel of painted lavender.

Everything in her mind screamed at her to leave the room and let the painting be thrown away. Everything except for a very small voice in the back of her mind. The painting was not perfect, but it was not ugly.

With a skittish sort of grace, the little Altmer girl lifted the frame and tucked it under her arm. With quick steps, she left as well. Her mother may have held a great distaste for the deep brush strokes and the little blotches of discolored paint in places, but Elanniea still found beauty in it.

Her room was as organized meticulously, even own to her bookcase, with the titles alphabetized. That was where she first went, placing the painting down and pushing the large piece of furniture to the left. Almost immediately, she was overwhelmed with the smell of earth and age. Behind her bookshelf was a tunnel, and not a large one at that.

Only she knew where it led, and the location nearly had her screaming the first time she discovered it. She had heard that Nords as well kept their dead in a special hall, but the hallowed serenity of an Altmer crypt was, to her, impossible to replicate. That did not mean she enjoyed where her secret tunnel led.

Elanniea was terrified of the dead, including the stone likeness of her great-grandmother, who watched her with kind, gray eyes when she went to visit her.

Quietly, she knelt down, placing the painting into the dim cavern. She could still see every imperfection clearly, but still found she did not care. If anything, Elanniea felt herself growing rather attached to the mistakes.

There was no doubt in her mind that she artist had seen them too, that they would improve for next time. She did not care about next time. She cared about this time, about the blue of the stream and the bright of the flowers. She cared about every brush stroke, every spot.

She left the painting there after moving the bookcase back where it belonged. As she lay in her bed that night, watching the place where she knew it was hidden, Elanniea realized she cared for the flaws as well.

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**A/N: Wow, this is kinda embarrassing. New multi-chap fic, how wonderful. Anyway, this has been stewing in my brain for a while, and I guess the only reason why I'm typing this is to thank indismero for BETAing not this chapter but the next couple of ones. Thank you, my dear.**


	2. Chapter One: Far From Home

_**Chapter One: Far From Home**_

Elanniea rewarded anyone who looked at her with a harsh glare as the cramped cart made its way towards the village. She had long since gotten used to the rough jostling, and had instead focused her attention on the humiliating nature of her situation.

_I don't deserve to be here_, she told herself. _All of this is his fault. He said I could trust him._ She let out a barely audible sigh and shifted a little bit. Beside her, a gruff man gave her an annoyed look. His hands were bound, as hers were, but there was a gag tied tightly around his mouth as well. He wore nicer clothing than Elanniea was allowed, then again, anything would be.

The rough shift the Imperial guards had thrown her chaffed her golden skin, leaving behind thin, red lines. Never in her life had she imagined that she would be forced to wear something like it, but she supposed it was her punishment for forcing the very same garment on to so many others.

She shuddered to think of her rather messy arrest. The Markarth guards always were a rough bunch and took pleasure in tossing the Altmer woman around a little bit before throwing her into a cell for an undetermined amount of time. That part _was _her fault, perhaps she shouldn't have put on her high and mighty attitude before her position as a Justiciar was set.

Still, she paraded around Understone Keep, casting flirtatious glances at Ondolemar, the man who had been her fiancé, and ultimately, her undoing. She should never have believed that he would not betray her trust. He looked at her with scorn. She assumed she could confide in her future husband. Now, it had become painfully clear that she had been mistaken.

"You've been awfully quiet, Elf." Elanniea winced as the blonde soldier that sat opposite to her spoke. She set her mouth into a thin line as she looked up at the Nord. His navy blue armor was frayed from the Imperial ambush, his chain mail was dull and she looked at him with disgust as he taunted her. "You sure you're in the right place? I thought all of your kind was in the pocket of the damn Thalmor." She winced again, but she remained silent.

"You're really with them, then?" Another voice spoke, and she turned to see that another Nord was talking to her. His face was dirty and his eyes were sunken in. Instead of blonde hair, greasy brown locks framed his thin face. There was no malice in his words, only fear and the hope of gaining favor with the enemy. Elanniea thought for a moment and then shook her head, not saying a word. The man's fear intensified as he looked away.

"Goes to show how loyal those damn Elves are to their own kind." Her eyes snapped back to the blonde and for a moment, she could have sworn that the Stormcloak rebel was afraid of the intense hatred burning there. It was not like her eyes were difficult to fear; there once was that stereotypical haughty Altmer pride in her green orbs, but that had recently been put out.

Despite his cruel phrasing, Elanniea had to admit that she _had_ been betrayed. She wanted to strike the idiot Nord for making her feel so useless and expendable, but when she jerked her hands, she recalled their position. The fabric rubbed her wrists raw and kept them where they were.

She glared at him, but kept her mouth shut. She would not dignify his accusation with an answer. She scorned the Nords for being as foolish as they were, for thinking that they of all races could stand against the Aldmeri Dominion. They had no chance, she knew that, but evidently they didn't.

All of their tendencies aside, Elanniea could not deny them an honorable mention to their bravery. They were a strong race, but the Altmer were stronger. Mer were superior to all, but Nordic pride rivalled that of the rightly named High Elves. Elanniea doubted that the common name of her race was meant to be respectful. High Elves were just that, but the Imperials held distrust and loathing in their voices when they spoke it.

The eyes of the man sitting next to her held similar feelings. Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm and the root of all the Altmer female's troubles. His rebellion was the _real _reason why she was sitting in cramped cart with her hands bound in front of her. If he had surrendered to the higher power, Skyrim would not be soaked in the blood of its sons and daughters.

She did like his use of slogans, however. "Skyrim Belongs to the Nords!" Was the phrase that was inscribed on the tattered fliers that littered the streets, and it had always made her laugh. There was never a time when the harsh wasteland belonged to anybody but the Elves. The Altmer and Snow Elves were here first, and while she understood what a twisted race the Falmer had become, Skyrim was still theirs.

A cold wind blew on the air, stinging her golden cheeks and turning them a light pink. Elanniea supposed that it was Skyrim's cruel way of reminding her that she would not be surrounded by her loved ones when her blonde head would be cleaved from her shoulders, and her blood would stain the village streets. She was certain she would be able to face her death with dignity, but being executed in Skyrim only added insult to injury. Still, she held her head above the rest, refusing to be reduced to a weeping wretch.

She wondered what her mother would think when her remains would be delivered to their doorstep. No doubt she would wrinkle her nose in disgust and order them to be burned. Her father would look at her lifeless and no doubt headless body with disappointment in his eyes. He was more likely to have a shred of sadness within them as well, more likely than her mother, but both knew of her treachery. Both knew she deserved no other sentence. She had shamed her family greatly by what she had done. They were cast out of their elite social circle and would not be allowed back in until their only daughter's head was on a spike. Deep down, Elanniea knew that her family would rejoice at their return to power rather than waste their time mourning.

"Scared to face the chopping block, Elf?" She rolled her eyes. That damn Nord rebel was talking again, and she really wished that he would stop. Couldn't he let her prepare for her fate in peace? It seemed not.

Again, Elanniea was struck with the urge to speak, but her pride held her back. She bit her lip discretely and thought for a moment. While replying to rebel before her would not be the finest was of speaking her last, she did not want her final words to be "Let me go!" as she was dragged towards the Markarth dungeon.

"There are worse things than death," she replied. Her voice was stony, but her Summerset Isle accent was warm. The mouths of the two Nords across from her almost fell open in shock. She knew that neither of them expected her to reply.

_Oh well_, she thought. _Small victories are the sweetest, after all._ She straightened her back slightly, trying to live up to her pristine heritage. She would not slouch on the way to her death.

"What could possibly be worse?" Her smouldering eyes were alight with mischief as she looked to the horse thief. Psychological torture was a specialty of Elanniea's, and she relished in it. They were both going to die this day, so she might as well have a bit of fun before they did.

"The Thalmor have spent decades perfecting their torture methods," she began, noting the increase of fear in his dull brown eyes. "They are the best. I had never seen a prisoner beg for death until I witnessed that. It was almost sad, if it were not so funny." She looked to the Stormcloak rebel, who had grit his teeth.

"They... they wouldn't!" The horse thief stammered and Elanniea's eyes gleamed. She spared a glance towards Jarl Ulfric, who had a grim look set into his aging face. It almost gave her pause. It was not filled with rage, but with knowing. She opened her mouth to frighten the poor Nord a little bit more, but was silenced.

"Quiet back there, Elf." The driver of the cart called back, and Elanniea wished that her hands were free so that she could strike him with a lightning bolt. That would teach him for robbing her of her last pleasurable experience. She turned her head to the left and her heart sank as she realized that they had finally reached the destination of Helgen's gates.

Elanniea's stomach rolled as she thought of dying here, so far from home. All of the meticulous and elaborate escape plans that she had cooked up in her cell had gone to waste. She had hoped to finally break free of her chains, both Altmer and Thalmor alike. She wanted to be free, to see Skyrim and to meet its people. She wanted to travel and live off the land. Now, at barely seventy, Elanniea's dreams were to be cut short.

As the gates opened, Elanniea caught sight of someone she hoped to forget. Sitting straight-backed on a dark horse was a female she knew all too well. The woman was Altmer, same as her, with a beautiful face and golden hair. It was Elenwen, First Emissary to the Thalmor. The sight of her was unwelcome to say the least. The Emissary was old, just reaching six-hundred years, but it was not her age that threatened the younger of the two.

Elenwen was beautiful, yes, and she had a high stature within the Dominion. She was also incredibly high born and took it upon herself to look at Ondolemar whenever she came from an inquiry. Elanniea understood the necessity of making eye contact, but the way that Thalmor bitch's lashes would flutter made her blood boil.

Elanniea was a relatively new Justiciar, but was perhaps even higher born than Elenwen, as was Ondolemar. He had breached a hundred years a few weeks before their arrangement, and Elanniea's parents were all too happy to push their young daughter into his lap. It would have been an insult to decline, and so he did not.

It pained the young Justiciar to know that he had not come to care for her as she had done him, that he would not respect her. To like one's arranged partner was a blessing that she supposed was given only to her. He thought Elanniea improper and naive. Both were true, but he had agreed to this and could not escape.

Elanniea proved herself to be quite foolish when she came to him, wishing to speak about private matters in her chamber. He complied with a bored expression that faded into one of feigned surprise and sincerity as she whispered to him her dirty little secret.

He wasted no time in reporting her. He saw no problem with that. His future wife obviously did not have what it took to move up the ranks after doing such a thing, but then to tell a fine, upstanding and ultimately loyal member of the Dominion about such a crime was the final straw. He felt nothing as they clamped her in irons and took her away. He visited her once in the Markarth jail, and that was to ask for his ring back.

He had never seen an Altmer girl cry before, and as he left the long row of cells, ring in hand; he told himself that he never wished to again.

Elanniea cursed herself for being so stupid, she wished she could turn back time and make it so that nobody would ever have to know her secret. She would still do what she did, but not a soul would know but her.

_You live and you learn, she thought grimly. __However, I__t seems as though my time is up_. A few moments later, the cart jerked to a halt, sending her crashing into Ulfric Stormcloak, who gave her another harsh glare. The Redguard captain ordered them out of their seats. All complied quietly except for the horse thief.

"No! I'm not a rebel, you can't do this!" he shouted and Elanniea stopped wishing to turn back time and instead prayed for him to stop.

_Is this man an example of Nords under the Empire's rule? _she asked herself._ It seems almost wasteful._ The horse thief lacked any and all courage, which was arguably the best trait of their entire race. The Altmer shook her head and jumped down from the cart behind the rebel as an Imperial Legate that the captain had called Hadvar began to call out their names.

He was also a Nord, she noticed, making a thought cross her mind, a thought that perhaps not all Nords are merely looking to make trouble. Maybe some had brains as well as brawn, enough to realize that it was easier to kill a sleeping bear than an alert one ready for battle.

The Aldmeri Dominion was a hungry animal, always looking for more power to gobble up. Elanniea had been seduced by it in the form of a very handsome Altmer mage, but she found that it was hardly worth getting her head lobbed off.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The Nord called, crossing the name off of his list.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." The rebel said, before his name was called.

"Ralof of Riverwood." Now Elanniea knew the rebel's name. Ralof. She turned it over in her mind and decided that it fit his stereotypical Nord exterior.

"Move towards the block." The Redguard said harshly and he complied with a nod.

"Lokir of Rorikstead." She finally knew the coward's name.

"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" He cried, shifting his weight.

"You're a Nord!" Elanniea finally shouted. "Face your death with the courage I've heard so much about!" Lokir looked to her with wide eyes as the courtyard fell silent. The thief saw his chance and took it.

"You're not going to kill me!" he shouted, sprinting towards the upper gate. All eyes followed him as the Imperial archers drew their bows and fired, stopping him in his tracks.

"Feel like running, Elf?" The captain asked and Elanniea shook her head. Finally, Hadvar called her name.

"Elanniea Graythar, of Summerset Isle," he said and she stepped forward. His eyes widened slightly. "Are you with the Thalmor?" he asked and Elanniea looked up the path to see Elenwen glaring down at her.

"I am not affiliated with them," she replied, noticing how cold and dead her voice sounded. Then again, she was preparing for the end.

"Very well," Hadvar said, scratching her name off of the list. "I'll make sure your remains are returned to you homeland." She gave him another grim nod in thanks and moved to stand behind Ralof.

Jarl Ulfric stood face-to-face with another man wearing intricate red and gold armor. She knew him, but had never spoken to him. The man was General Tullius, an Imperial with short, white hair and tan skin. His arms were folded over his chest and while height was not in his favor, he spoke with authority.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Elanniea had heard of the murder of the High King from the guards that patrolled the jail. She had sat beside a kingslayer and had not even known it. Not all could say that.

She wondered what the 'Voice' was, and if that was why he was gagged. She watched with big eyes as the Jarl let out a few muffled grunts. This seemed to make Tullius angry.

"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!" He then turned to captain. "Give them their last rights," he commanded to the priest in orange robes and a yellow hood. She nodded and raised her arms. She began to speak in a dull voice, her speech obviously memorized. Elanniea was glad when it was over.

With the threat of death imminent, she looked up from the ground and forced herself to give Ralof a small smile. He blinked once and then returned it. Surprisingly, she felt a little bit more at ease. Unfortunately, it was short lived. The first nameless rebel was called to the chopping block. He was brave, Elanniea had to give him that, and he showed no fear when the burly executioner sliced his head off.

A woman in Stormcloak garb wailed and fell to her knees. Elanniea did not know what she was whispering to herself as she sobbed on the ground, but it sounded like the dead rebel meant a lot to her. Once the Nord woman was back on her feet, eyes bleary, and feet unsteady, the captain surveyed the crowd of people and the grieving rebel all but volunteered.

It seemed that the Redguard enjoyed seeing people in misery much more than Elanniea thought, as instead of choosing her to join her fallen friend, the captain's eyes landed on her.

"Next, the Elf in the rags." Elanniea felt fear grip her as she shuffled towards the block. About halfway to her death, a faint but inhuman roar was heard just beyond the mountain range. The Altmer couldn't stop shaking, no matter how much she tried.

"Captain?" Hadvar asked. There was a nervous uncertainty in his voice.

"I said next prisoner!" she all but shouted and Elanniea flinched away when she was pushed down on the block. Another roar was heard.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" General Tullius shouted as a black shape flew behind a mountain.

"What do you see?" the captain called to the lookouts. Their faces were pale as the black shape returned.

"It's in the clouds!" they yelled back, but the shape did not stay there for long. It had claws, fangs and big black wings. Elanniea had a great view of the hulking beast as the headsman raised his axe. She squeezed her eyes shut tight but the blade never met her exposed neck. She opened her lids and screamed when a black dragon landed on the roof of the tower.

She stood, with her breathing heavy as she noticed the headsman lay dead at her feet. The Altmer screamed again as she felt something grab her around her waist, but it was lost amongst the distressed cries and battle orders. She turned to find Ralof, who had been cut free, looking at her with urgent eyes.

"Come on, Elf!" He said to her. "The gods won't give us another chance!" It seemed as though giving him a smile was enough to make her worth saving, and without another word, she left him lead her towards the only tower that wasn't burning... yet.

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**A/N: So yeah, that's the first chapter! indismero _did _BETA this one, and so all good grammar props can go to her. **


	3. Chapter Two: Worse Off

_**Chapter Two: Worse Off**_

The stone was hot under Elanniea's feet as she ran for the tower. Sweat poured down her brow as she struggled to keep up with Ralof. She had a height advantage, and her stride was longer, but it seemed that the Nord rebel had more opportunity to run than she did.

The Thalmor did not chase after those who were in their ledger, they hunted them slowly, tipping off guards and whispering in the Jarl's ear. It was much more efficient and much more amusing when the Dominion seemed to come out of nowhere and swoop down upon unsuspecting people. They didn't have a hope in Oblivion of escaping.

Elanniea had only ever seen such tracking once, and it had left its mark upon her. She spent a good four months rotting away in a cell in Cidhna Mine because of it. Ondolemar allowed her one kindness, he ordered her to be locked away, but not to be put to work. The Altmer were above that.

One day, he came to visit. It was the only time he did so, and Elanniea could not deny her foolish hope that he had come to apologize. He had not. Instead, he asked for his ring back, the only gift he had given her. It was not even his to take, it was a sacred ring forged by a High Elf blacksmith. It was supposed to signify loyalty and faithfulness in the coming marriage. It was the final blow to Elanniea's already dented pride.

She didn't look at him as she pried the golden band off of her finger and threw it at his feet. She couldn't stop tears from welling up in her eyes. It hurt too much to move for days after, as a foreign pain in her chest had taken up residence. It did not leave for a long time. Elanniea supposed that it was heartbreak. She decided that she hated it.

The Altmer doubted that there was ever a High Elf lady alive who had been forced to give back her fiancee's loyalty ring. For the hundredth time that day, Elanniea felt sicker than a flea-ridden cur as she launched herself at the wooden door of the tower behind Ralof and slammed it behind her with a thud. Beside her stood Jarl Ulfric, whose gag had been removed.

She leaned against the door as Ralof moved towards one of the other rebels. Suffice to say, Elanniea was surprised at where that was. On the ground was the sobbing Stormcloak woman. A large gash ran down her side that had not been there before. The man took the place of another and hovered over her, holding her pale hand.

"H-He's gone, Ralof. I-I can't believe it." The young woman shuddered, clutching at Ralof's blood-stained cuirass. He squeezed her hand and sighed.

"It's alright, Haema." He said. "You'll meet again in Sovngarde." He shushed her, casting glances towards the Jarl and then to the Elf. It looked as if he was asking permission for her to be there with his eyes. Elanniea turned to look at Ulfric and already found him staring at her. She resisted the urge to glare and draw herself to her full height.

"You are truly not affiliated with the Thalmor?" The king-slayer asked and she nodded. She had made her choice. There would be no grovelling for forgiveness over what she had done. Elanniea believed in second chances, Elenwen and Ondolemar did not.

"That is behind me." She said with a sure look and the Jarl blinked. For a moment, stale silence hung as screams and thuds pervaded the air outside.

"Was that really a dragon, Jarl Ulfric?" Ralof asked in a small voice. "The beings from legend?" The Jarl's mouth set into a firm line.

"Legends don't burn down villages." He replied, pushing the door open to glimpse the chaos outside. He pulled back as a jet of fire was directed at him. "We need to move! Now!" Ralof nodded and gave the woman a kiss on the forehead. He pulled his hand away from her and looked to the other two rebels.

"Get her out. Wait until it is safe and then escape through the south wall." He opened the wooden door a little bit and pointed to the gaping hole that had been blown into the stone. The Stormcloaks' allowed cautious smiles to grace their tired faces as they listened to his orders. He turned and looked at Elanniea. "You, come with me." He grabbed her bound hands again and began to drag her towards the stone steps. "Up, through the tower. Go!" The Altmer complied, sprinting up the stairs.

"We just need to get some of this rubble out of the way!" Another rebel shouted at her, pushing large chunks of rock that blocked their path. Elanniea moved to help him, but Ralof grabbed her shoulder and pulled her backwards. Not two seconds later, the right side of the tower exploded as the dragon knocked it in. It looked around and then opened its mouth, saying a few words before fire engulfed the small space. Elanniea staggered back into Ralof's shoulder as her vision temporarily darkened. There was no was up now.

When her vision was restored, Ralof again grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the new exit. "See that inn on the side?" He asked, pointing to the thoroughly destroyed building. Elanniea nodded. "Jump through the roof and keep going." She hesitated, calculating the distance. "Go on! We'll follow you!" He said. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hoisting herself up onto the ledge. She pushed off, falling through the thick hay roof and crumbling onto the hard, wooden floor. Still, she made it. She was safe, for the moment.

Elanniea stood, wishing that she could move her hair out of her eyes. Those damn rebels hadn't thought to untie her. It was enough to make her blood boil. She noticed another hole in the floor of the inn and fell through that, slipping in between two planks of wood and coming to a halt outside again. Behind yet another burning building, an old man crouched. He was looking towards Hadvar, whom Elanniea thought would be dead by now.

"Hamming, you need to get over here!" He called to a little boy. The child ran over to his elder obediently and then to the old man, who wrapped him in a tight embrace. "Everyone, get back!" The soldier shouted as the dragon landed on the ground, letting out another jet of the deadly fire. Hadvar unsheathed his sword and looked back to the Altmer female.

"Still alive, Elf?" He asked rhetorically. "Stay close if you want to stay that way." Elanniea nodded and followed him as the dragon took off again. He led her down a cobblestone path and into a small alley between a house and the courtyard wall.

Elanniea felt herself again being pushed against the stone wall by Hadvar's arm. She almost screamed again as the scaly beast landed right above them, his claws digging at where she stood not a moment ago.

She sent a thankful glance his way, but the solider had already sprinted away. She followed close behind as they reached another pair of gates. Elenwen was there, cowering in fear with General Tullius. Surrounding them were Imperial mages casting wards against the dragon flames. It was so hot, even under her rough-spun tunic, and the intense heat only made Elanniea's anger grow. She moved towards the haughty Thalmor bitch, but was instead faced with General Tullius.

"Run, you idiot!" He shouted at her and she blinked. Hadvar stood to her left, Elenwen to her right. It would be all too easy in this panic to break her neck, the older Altmer hadn't even caught sight of her yet. Elanniea swallowed and turned, running towards Hadvar. She would have her revenge on Elenwen, just not that day.

"Come on, this way!" Elanniea turned her head when she heard a familiar voice as they entered the Helgen keep courtyard.

"Ralof!" Hadvar shouted to the blonde. "You damn traitor! Out of my way!" Elanniea stopped short.

"We're escaping, Hadvar, you can't stop us." There was no other rebels around. The blonde meant him and the Elf.

"Fine!" The Nord solider roared, looking to the Altmer. "I hope that dragon takes you both to Sovngarde!" Hadvar ran towards the Warden's side of the keep while Ralof sprinted towards the entrance. Elanniea had made her choice before she had the chance to think and quickly followed the Stormcloak.

Elanniea resisted the urge to collapse onto the frayed carpet of Helgen keep when she heard the door slam behind her. For a moment, she allowed herself to think about what would happen if the ax had been brought down. Her knees quaked as visions of the decapitated rebel flashed through her mind. She felt a familiar ache in her chest when her thoughts turned to the sobbing Nord woman.

In a brief moment of selfishness, she wished that somebody would have cried like that for her if she _had _died.

The Altmer shook her head. She was alive, relatively well, and going to see another day. While her escape plans had backfired, she was almost free. Somehow, some way, she would find a way to do all that she had wanted to and more.

"Are you alright?" Elanniea turned to see Ralof standing beside her. He eyed her shaking form suspiciously. She nodded, resisting the urge to speak in case nothing came out. "Very well then, this way." He said, walking down the corridor to the base of the tower.

There was no furniture except for a small table and chair. Collapsed on the ground in front of it wearing Stormcloak garb was a redheaded Nord. Ralof's eyes widened and he rushed forward, kneeling down beside the corpse and looking at it with as much pity and affection as he had with Haema.

"We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother." He told the dead man, closing his eyes. Elanniea was glad to be rid of the blue gaze. They looked like long tunnels with an expertly locked door on the end. There was no way to escape how cold they were.

"H-how did he...?" Elanniea trailed off. She intended to ask how the Nord man had died, but a stare that rivaled the iciness of a draugr from Ralof silenced her. She took in a shuddering breath and crossed her arms over her chest. Behind the guarded walls of her manor on Summerset Isle, Elanniea was a stranger to death. Her position as a Justiciar had not dulled her fear of what lay beyond this life. For the most part, she walked around Markarth, thankful to skip the wails from bleeding prisoners.

Only twice had she been subjected to that. Once, she enjoyed it. A dark room with only a single torch and no weapon save her words made for an entertaining evening. The final time, however, was less of an experience.

Once again, the Altmer shook her head. Being around Nords sent her to that dark corner of her mind where memories spread like an infectious disease. Yet another reason to detest them.

"Here, let's see if we can't get these bindings off." The Nord spoke. Elanniea looked down at her wrists and was shocked to find them still tightly tied. She wondered why they hadn't cut her free earlier.

In a mere minute, she knew the bitter taste of reality. While it seemed her life was worth saving, the damn rebels still didn't trust her. Such a realization made her wince when Ralof pulled out a small dagger from his pocket. She didn't know where he got it from, but the stench of death was on it.

"I won't hurt you." He said, moving closer to her. He gripped her wrist in his rough hand, and with one quick cut, the tattered rag fell to the floor. She sighed as she rotated her joints, rubbing the red line that had been imprinted into her light skin. The Nord looked at her with impatience as he thought of what they could do next.

"Thank you." The look of stern worry on the rebels face softened slightly when she uttered the phrase. It quickly returned however, as he shook his head and looked to the fallen Stormcloak.

"Put on his gear." The rebel ordered, killing the silence. The tone of his voice would have been offensively authoritative in any other circumstance, but given the situation, all Elanniea could do was stare.

"W-what?" She squeaked in a small voice.

"Are you slow as well?" The Nord asked. He voice was filled with barely contained rage, as if the thought of an Altmer wearing Stormcloak garb disgusted him almost as much as it did Elanniea at being ordered to strip.

With shaky hands, the Altmer undid the clasps on his armor, blushing beet-red as she pulled away the blood-soaked fabric until the man was clad in naught but his smallclothes. The blood made the fabric stiff and uncomfortable to hold as Elanniea turned her back. Much to her surprise, the Nord turned as well, keeping his gaze locked on the opposing wall.

She changed quickly, adjusting the straps so that the material no longer hung from her thin frame. Over eight months of prisoner rations had thinned the Elf quite a bit. The fabric was rough and scraped her delicate skin as the prison clothes had. The only difference, she noted, was that the fabric was dark blue. She sighed and supposed she would have to make do as she coughed lightly, signalling Ralof to turn and face her again.

"Alright. We need to get out of here." He said, giving her a once-over, familiar distaste in his eyes. In all honesty, it made his blood boil to see the enemy in his fallen friend's armor. He averted his gaze, finding it easier to bear the haughty Elf when he didn't have to look at her. Instead, he focused on the opposing gate.

While Elanniea was a few inches taller than the Nord, he reached the door before her in a few strides. His hands pulled at the gate handle, and he almost growled like an animal when it refused to budge. He looked towards the door that led out of the keep, but shook his head.

"Gods dammit! There must be a key around here somewhere." He said, turning away from the rusted bars and stalking towards the small table. He turned over plates and tankards, sweeping everything off the surface. The tinware clattered to the floor, making a loud noise that was carried by the rounded stone walls.

"Such anger." Elanniea commented with a smirk on her pale lips. Just as quickly as Ralof had crossed the room, he was beside her again. With a force she did not expect, he pushed her up against the wall, a hand around her throat and a fist raised.

"Listen, Elf," He said with as much authority as the Emperor. "I have more than earned the right to be _angry_, and I have no issues with striking anyone of your kind, woman or not." His grip tightened around her pale golden throat, cutting off her air supply. Thin hands found his and tugged against his rough grip, to no avail.

"R-ralof," Elanniea choked. She realized it was the first time she had called him anything but rebel. "Please." It seemed that her submissiveness was enough for him, as his grip on her throat loosened. With a jerk of his wrist, he sent her crashing to the floor, knocking the wind out of her.

"I don't believe for a minute that you aren't involved with the Thalmor." He said, turning away to look for the key to the locked door. "The only reason your alive, Elf, is because I _do_ believe that you have some value to me." Even though she could barely breath, Elanniea gasped and whipped her head up to look at his back. "When we get out of here, It will be very interesting to see just how much your kind want for you."

"What?" She asked. Never in her life had she felt such a betrayal. Perhaps she should have expected it, but alas, she did not see it coming. She assumed that her comment was all that dented his pride, and had intended to apologize. She allowed herself to think about the weight behind his threat; she would be back exactly where she was, so close to death and yet so painfully close to someone she might have loved.

Elanniea didn't want to think of being locked up again, didn't want to think about having an ax above her head. Despite her efforts, a small whimper escaped from her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping he hadn't heard her as she moved to stand up. It seemed that luck was not on her side, for the Nord rebel turned with a smirk on his face not a moment later.

"Scared, Elf?" He asked with a poisonous tone to his voice. "What could you have possibly done to make yourself fear your own kind?" Elanniea hardened her gaze, balling her hands into fists beneath the fur gauntlets.

"I'm terrified." She replied. Elanniea realized with triumph that she had taken Ralof aback. She also realized how much she was enjoying her petty victories as of late. "As for my reasons, they are mine, but do you know of Thorald Gray-Mane?" Elanniea watched as the Nord man's mouth opened, closed, and then opened again.

"Why do you ask?" He only received a casual shrug in answer from the Elf. "I've never fought alongside him, no." Ralof admitted, "But he did forge this." His hand went to his belt where a heavy iron war ax hung along with a dagger. "Bloody good blacksmith that one, even better than Alvor." Elanniea wanted to ask who Alvor was, but she wasn't quite finished yet.

"Do you know what happened to him?" She asked and again, Ralof's eyes darkened.

"Dead." Was his reply. Elanniea nodded.

"Yes, of course." She said, turning towards the locked gate. Her hands went to the rotting wood, rattling them back and forth. She heard Ralof move closer to her behind her.

"What are you playing at, Elf?" He asked. The authoritative tone was back, but her fear was not. Elanniea felt a familiar, electric sensation running through her fingertips just before she felt the Stormcloak rebel grab her shoulder. She stiffened and whipped around, hitting him square in the chest with a simple paralysis spell. He fell to the ground, glaring at her and attempting to stand. Elanniea glared right back and put her hands on her hips.

"Listen, Nord." She spat out like a curse word. "I am Elanniea Graythar, ex-Thalmor Justiciar. I can rip a man apart with my words and with my flames." As if on command, the simple destruction spell balled up in her hands, which she held out to him in a threatening way. "The spell will wear off soon. Consider it a warning because the next time you lay a hand on me will be the last time you _have_ hands."

She let her hands fall to her sides, and the fire faded away. The uncomfortable heat faded as well, along the with paralysis spell. Despite the danger she knew she was putting herself in, she held her hand out for Ralof to take. He took it cautiously and she helped him up. When he was standing, he backed away from her a bit, but there was no fear in his eyes. Instead, she found malice at being matched and just a little bit of... respect.

Elanniea smiled inside her head, but it soon faded as the sound of footsteps grew behind her. She turned towards the wooden portcullis at her back, her eyes widening. She took a few steps back when the footsteps grew closer and began to speak.

"Imperials," Ralof whispered. "Take cover." She nodded, ducking behind a stone wall and raising her hands. The fire returned as she heard the sound of an opening gate. Elanniea's smile returned as well, on the outside for once. It was time for revenge.


End file.
